Like Open Wounds
by Firing Rockets on Dragons
Summary: The truth is difficult to swallow.


Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of its characters

Title: Like Open Wounds

Rating: T

Summary: After Seneca Crane's death, Effie sensed trouble.

Prompt: #15 Locked up for everyone to see

* * *

"What's wrong with you?"

Haymitch Abernathy crossed his arms and looked over the edge of the rooftop, below was the Capitol streets, glittering with dazzling lights that danced before his eyes. The people paraded the avenues and boulevards in bold and vibrant clothes adorned with feathers, sequins, and glitters. They were vociferous, determined to let the victors, who had to re-enter the arena, hear their voices as they cheered them on. Finnick Odair and the 'star-crossed lovers from 12' were the most popular. He could only grunt. He resented the Capitolians; they were wasteful and oblivious. They unwittingly bathed themselves with the blood of innocent children to stay forever young.

Beside him was a seemingly confounded Effie Trinket. The District 12 escort was a classic example of Capitolian cruelty. Every year, she strutted gracefully on stage, picking out children's names from giant fishbowls with a smile. Were it not for her responsibilities as escort, she would be down there with the crowd, drinking and eating like there was no tomorrow. But as she stood by the edge of the rooftop, her blue eyes staring at a distance, she looked anything but happy.

"I'm just a little tired," she offered, hoping that he would buy her excuse.

He snorted. Right after Katniss revealed what she'd done to gain a 12, Effie walked out crying. Haymitch did not know why. The former victor thought that she was probably upset about how much Katniss had jeopardized their chances. But if it were so, she would have nagged the girl about how much it would reflect badly on the team. No, it had to be something else. And he was pretty sure it was not because she was tired.

"Still bothered about Seneca Crane's death?"

Her muscles tensed at the mention of the late game maker's name. He knew it had hit home. He watched her every move; the way she bit her lip and tried to relax her overwrought muscles, as if it did not matter to her. But her effort was in vain because her watery eyes gave her away.

"It's just that," she tried to find a kind word for it, but none came to mind, "his execution – I –"

No words could express what she felt about Seneca Crane's public execution. Pity? Fear? A sickening fusion of both? It was hazy. She'd never felt more confused.

"Oh yeah," Haymitch said, " 'twas a pretty nasty death, wasn't it?"

His words came out cold, almost cruel. He did not intend to reveal his indifference but he had very little sympathy for the head game maker of last year's Hunger Games. He tried to undo the harshness of his previous statement.

"Listen, princess, about what Katniss did. I know it must've been offensive. Even I thought it was a stupid move. But I'm asking you to understand. She was just frustrated. And while she's making no effort to be considerate, well, it's our job to be thoughtful of her."

She straightened up and began to shake her head; her golden wig moved in the same rhythm.

"No, no. I do understand her frustrations. And I don't blame her for being so… feisty," she said, "It has nothing to do with that, really. It's just that after the execution of one of our own, I just – how can we go on with our merry ways?"

She blinked back the tears that threatened to fall and looked down on the streets. It may have been a trick of the light, but for a moment, she almost seemed disgusted with her people.

"Bet you're wishing you were down there, with your crowd, instead of standing here with an old drunkard."

Effie scoffed. He did not even seem to be trying to understand what she was saying. The escort felt insulted.

"Have you not been listening to me?" It sounded more like an accusation than an actual question.

Haymitch moved a little closer to her and lowered his voice.

"Oh, I heard you loud and clear, sweetheart," his voice was raspy, "what I'm trying to say is that you're probably wishing you were as oblivious as they are; blissfully unaware of the horrors that go on behind the scenes and the threat they pose for those of you who are heavily involved in it. It sucks, don't you think."

"I don't understand what you mean," she said stiffly.

She was lying. She knew exactly what he meant. A strange feeling tugged on her insides. It could have been her, she thought. She could have been the one hanging in the gallows, asphyxiated by the tightness of the noose around her neck. She shuddered. The idea had been keeping her up at nights.

"I'm sure you don't," the irony in his voice was aggravating, "but think about it, princess. Why did they kill Seneca Crane?"

She swallowed hard. The tension was rising within her, threatening to send an explosion of unwanted thoughts unto the inky night sky. Her heart pounded on her chest, begging for release. She was so close to fainting, but she held onto the railings for support.

"I – I don't know," she said with a hoarse voice, "We should not be talking about this."

Haymitch looked at her in mock surprise, noting the uncertainty in her words, he pressed on.

"Why not, Effie?" he asked, "no one will hear us. And besides, it doesn't really matter. No one would take me, the laughing stock of Panem, seriously."

Her bright azure eyes stared at his dull gray ones. Hers shone with trepidation while his hinted at mischief. She was sure that he was making fun of her; playing nasty games with her head. He was driving her mad with fear.

"I – I… they're not supposed to hear me," she said, "I'm not supposed to – opposition is unwelcomed – I mean, I can't – or rather, I do not – "

She found herself unable to compose her thoughts, and her words came out in unintelligible fragments. She felt silly, she stuttered like a little girl who got caught stealing a cookie out of a jar.

"Oh, but I'm sure the Capitol values its citizens' opinions, especially those of your stature. In a way, you are a political figure, aren't you?" his words were playful, but the implication was weighty, "or are you afraid that dear old President Snow would not be pleased?"

She choked back a sob. A pitiful sound was emitted from her throat in its place. Haymitch smirked, knowing that he finally managed to corner her. There was no escape from the enlightening conversation he had started. To run was to admit defeat, and Effie was not the kind of woman who backed down.

"Stop. Just stop," her voice was wavering, and the tears came bursting out of her eyes, washing the powder off her otherwise pale skin. She furiously rubbed the drops away.

His intentions were pure. He came to try and comfort her, to be a pal. The truth is, he did not plan for their conversation to become so risky, but it unraveled on its own. And he did not want to push her into something that could potentially cause harm. But the contents that threatened to spill out of her head were too delicious to pass up. He never thought that her tiny mind held any substance at all.

"Why?" his voice was sharp, "Finally got it inside that thick skull of yours? Finally realized that your beloved Capitol doesn't give a damn about you?"

She was hysterical. Her mind was clouded with thick, suffocating smoke that rose from a mind-numbing battle of two opposing ideas. Her legs finally gave in and she knelt on the concrete ground of the rooftop, her hands covering her ears while the tears fell on the fabric of her dress.

"Stop moping, princess," he was exasperated.

Her deplorable state threatened to rip his heart out; seeing her that way almost made him pity her. But it would've been more pitiable if she was left in the dark, prancing around in her pretty high-heeled shoes, forcing herself inside a world of unawareness; a world that only existed inside her large wigs.

She breathed quickly and heavily, gasping for the air her lungs craved. His voice brought her back from hysteria. She looked up at him, her eyes shining with pure hatred.

"The Capitol knows what's best for its people."

She tried to defend her glorious home, but as the words rolled off her tongue, she found herself half-doubting them.

"Yeah, keep tellin' yourself that," he mumbled, "that would keep you happy and alive, wouldn't it?"

She gritted her teeth and picked herself off the ground. Her legs were still too weak to support her weight, but she continued to do so, until she was standing with shaking knees. She stepped closer and looked the mentor in the eye, trying to make him believe that her conviction was not wavering.

"It's the truth," she sniffed.

Haymitch held her by the shoulders, steadying her trembling limbs. He admired her resolve, but at the same time, he pitied her for being a victim of a lie.

"No, princess," he said, his voice was surprisingly soft and full of compassion, "you deluded yourself into believing it to be true. There is a significant difference."

"I do not want to hear any of it," she said, her voice yielding. She was determined to keep the last remaining fragment of faith she had for her home, even if it meant pleading for Haymitch to stop spewing out truth from his mouth.

"Just humor me," he said, "I think I understand what you're thinking. You think that they publicly killed Seneca Crane as an example to you, to anyone, who dares show mercy; to anyone who relents. To anyone who gets attached. You may think that you're all happy and free, but at the end of the day, we're all on the same sinking boat. That's what's been bothering you. That's what's been lingering in the back of your mind."

The way he put her thoughts into words troubled and relieved her at the same time. To know that someone understood what's been on her mind felt wonderful, but the thought of someone knowing how much she doubted the Capitol brought about an unexplainable feeling of impending doom. And the fear was winning.

"Shut up," she said, "just shut up."

She was holding onto him for support, her chest heaving. The truth was too much for her to bear. Still, he did not stop.

"You're the poster child of wealth and luxury, but the truth is, you're just as caged. Your lives prosper because you are the faces of this rotten country; they are using you to cover the oppressive nature of our government. You're prisoners, locked up in your illusions, for the entire world to see. You're just like us, all of you. You're just a piece in their games. You're expendable."

A loud striking sound pierced through the air, and Haymitch stood at the receiving end of it. His cheek was red on the spot where Effie's hand landed. He did not say anything. He just watched as she collapsed onto the ground in tears. She was hunched over, hands on her face, tears and colors raining down on the concrete, her shoulders rising and falling with each sob.

Haymitch prided himself with his blunt honesty, but he was not good at fixing the damages his skill had caused. Giving words of comfort was something he was unable to learn; he was much too damaged for that. So he sat beside Effie and patted her back while she took in every grain of truth that he rubbed over her newly-opened mind. It was all he could do for someone whose fate was awfully similar to his.


End file.
